


One More Dream

by citsiurtlanu



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Artist Steve Rogers, Bittersweet Ending, Inspired by La La Land (2016), M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citsiurtlanu/pseuds/citsiurtlanu
Summary: Steve is an animator dreaming of breathing life back into a stagnant industry.  Tony is a musician dreaming of introducing electric violin to rock.  In December of 1981, they meet and come to realize what it means to follow said dreams.Also known as the artist!Steve/musician!Tony La La Land AU no one ever asked for.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 31
Collections: Lights on Park Ave





	One More Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 13 of [Lights on Park Avenue](https://lightsonparkave.tumblr.com/), inspired in part by a quote by John Irving:  
>    
> _What is hardest to accept about the passage of time is that the people who once mattered the most to us wind up in parentheses._
> 
> (Okay, I technically actually wrote this in response to Round 12 but it turned out way longer than I thought. Luckily Round 13 worked too!)
> 
> Please note that this is a relatively straightforward La La Land AU (albeit minus the singing and dancing), so this will absolutely spoil the movie. Mind the tags as well as the prompt that this fic is written for. Also note that I don't work in the animation OR music industries, so sorry in advance for the things I inevitably got wrong. ;)
> 
> Thanks to [fundamentalBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fundamentalBlue/pseuds/fundamentalBlue) and [needchocolatenow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow) (who actually needs fried chicken) for the beta!

"Yeah, go ahead. I'll see you guys on Monday."

Sam and the others left, and Steve was left alone at the table, lingering so he could listen to the closing notes of  _ Silent Night _ being played by the two musicians on stage. It was nice, as it always was, to spend time with his coworkers, especially when work had sprung for them to have a holiday dinner at a nice restaurant, but even the glitz of live musicians wasn't enough to distract him from the problems that were simmering at the office. But maybe it could wait. Maybe it was a problem for 1982 Steve, once the new year rolled over. 1981 Steve could just sit and enjoy the music.

_ Silent Night _ drew to an end. Steve applauded politely, then grabbed his jacket and stood as the violinist started on something new. Except—whatever it was, it certainly wasn't any Christmas song he'd heard before, and his curiosity wouldn't let him leave.

His eyes darted to the pianist, who looked as lost as he did. Eventually, she found her bearings enough to start playing a basic rhythm as accompaniment, but from the expression on her face, she was still confused.

One thing was clear, Steve thought to himself: whatever the violinist was playing, it wasn't Christmas music.

For the next two minutes, Steve stood there, entranced as the violinist played on, his hand sliding along the strings, every note trembling with passion. But then—it ended as abruptly as it had started, on a strange note that Steve was sure wasn't meant to actually be the last note. Nonetheless, he remained starstruck, and yet—was he the only one? The other patrons were just eating, chatting, like hearing a violin do an incredible solo riff was nothing new. Except, wait, no—there was a man approaching the violinist now, and they were talking—but it didn't look good.

That was enough to finally shake him into action. The violinist was walking in his direction, instrument gripped tight in his hand, and so Steve approached him, mouth already running. "Hey," he said. "I just wanted you to know, I've never heard a violin played like that before, and—"

The man fished out a pair of glasses from his pocket with his free hand, stuck them on, and walked right past him without a word.

*

"Steve. Steve! Still paying attention, buddy?"

Steve waved a hand, blinking as he was snapped out of his thoughts. "Yeah, of course. But uh, I'm gonna grab a drink. I'll be back in a bit."

He stood and wandered over to one of the food tables. There was beer, and there was apple pie too, and if he had to choose what to occupy his hands with, the pie was obviously going to win even if it made him a bit of a liar. But he wasn't particularly keen on getting back to the conversation, anyway. It was just a distraction. This whole party, really, was a distraction. It would end, and then they'd have to get back to the drawing boards, churning out frames to produce a vision he didn't believe in, telling a story he didn't agree with. But it was work, and distraction or not, the company had been kind enough to throw a morale-boosting party with a live band. Shouldn't he just smile and count his blessings?

At least, he thought, as his gaze swept across the band members, the guitarist was kind of a looker.

And then, he realized a second later—he  _ recognized _ him. This wasn't just some random guitar player in a 60s cover band, it was the violinist. The one he'd seen at the upscale restaurant months ago, who had brushed past him without a second thought. His attire this time was a complete 180 from the suit and tie he'd been wearing before, but the goatee and glasses were unmistakable.

The lead singer finished crooning out the words to  _ Born to Be Wild_, then stood tall as he received a smattering of applause, undeterred by the lack of engagement.

"Requests?" he called to the crowd.

The violinist was staring off into space. He hadn't seen Steve yet. Maybe he wouldn't even recognize him. But here was a chance to take completely petty revenge, and by God, Steve was going to make the most out of it.

"Yeah," he called back. " _Eleanor Rigby_."

"You got it," the singer replied, and he grabbed the mic and jumped right in.

Steve turned his attention to the violinist, who was now looking at him even as his hands automatically started to strum along to the music. Though Steve wasn't exactly a pro at reading lips, he was pretty sure the man had just mouthed some variant of  _ you've gotta be fucking kidding me_.

He grinned at the daggers being leveled at him, eating his piece of pie as smugly as he could manage.  _ No_, he mouthed back.  _ I'm not. _

*

"So tell me, apple pie, are you just a fan of Debbie Downer songs being played at corporate events, or are you even more diabolical than that?"

Steve turned to see the speaker and saw, to his delight, that it was the violinist. Guitarist? Stringed-instrument player. He'd taken his shades off, though his guitar was still slung around his body. Maybe it was break time. "Debbie Downer?" he repeated, eyes wide. " _Eleanor Rigby_ 's not a Debbie Downer song. It's got a nice beat."

"Diabolical. I knew it." The man clapped his hands together, giving him an appraising look. "Do you know how many songs we have in our repertoire that actually have a violin in it in the original?"

"One?" Steve guessed.

"One," the man confirmed. "And you picked that  _ one _ song, knowing that I'm standing on that stage in this hippie get-up without my violin, and you made me play it on a guitar. It's a travesty. An insult. And I'm not going to stand for it."

"Tony!" someone called, and Steve followed the sound of the voice, recognizing the lead singer. He came over, patting the violinist—Tony—on the shoulder. "We're back on in five. Wrap it up here."

As soon as he swept off, Steve broke into a smile, raising one eyebrow. Now he had a name. "Okay,  _ Tony_," he said. "You got about five minutes to make me learn my lesson. What are you gonna do?"

Tony pursed his lips, and Steve took the opportunity to imagine steam coming out of his ears, cartoon-style. "Alright," he replied at last. "I admit there is a chance—a small chance, not more than a few percentage points—that maybe I was a little brusque when you approached me all those months ago."

"A little."

"To be fair, what you witnessed that that night was actually me getting fired. Tensions running high, emotions heady, the whole shebang. I actually think I reacted quite admirably."

Steve chuckled, taking a sip from his drink. "If that's your definition of admirable, I'd hate to see you when you're deplorable."

Tony leaned in close, licking his lips. "Oh, I could show you  _ that _ first hand."

Steve's drink caught in his throat, and all he managed to get a glimpse of through the ensuing coughing fit was Tony giving him a wink before he turned and headed back to the stage.

*

"So I was thinking, maybe we need something more for the kids. We have something dog-ish, but maybe we should have some woodland critters following the cast around too, you know? I actually came up for some great concepts for this chipmunk character—"

"Don't you think we've done enough of that already?" Steve replied, fighting the urge to rub his temples. At some point, the band had apparently wrapped up, and while Steve should have maybe gone back to the office to pick up some work, the thought also just felt so  _ tiring_, so he lingered. Of course, now he was starting to think maybe lingering was actually the worse choice.

"Yeah, but you haven't seen the chipmunk yet. And once you do—I mean, you're lead animator, you just have to give the word and we can start sneaking him into the scenes we haven't done yet—"

A flash of movement caught Steve's eye, and immediately the babble was tuned out as he got a better look. As he'd hoped, it was Tony, changed into more casual clothes, his guitar case strapped to his back as he headed out toward the parking lot.

"I'm sorry," he told the guy. "But this—I gotta—"

It was pointless trying to come up with more excuses, so he just gave up, shrugged, and started jogging in Tony's direction. "Hey, Paul McCartney!" he called.

Tony froze for a full second, then slowly pivoted toward Steve, tilting his head down so he could look at Steve over his sunglasses. "You know, I get the feeling that that was supposed to be a stinging insult, but I hope you're aware that Paul is America's favorite Beatle."

Steve came to a halt once he got close enough, fighting the smile that was trying to break out on his face. There was just something so  _ infuriating _ about Tony, and it was an itch he couldn't help but scratch. "Whatever you want to believe. You  _ did _ choose to respond to it."

"And I can assure you I have regrets, apple pie," Tony said. "But you can fix it. Show me where the hell the visitor parking is, because I'm lost."

"Yeah, you're on the wrong side of the campus. This way."

Tony followed as Steve motioned to the left, picking at some berries on a plastic plate he was carrying. "Pretty sweet gig you got here," he commented as they walked. "How often do you guys get company parties?"

"Only when morale is low," Steve said. "So, pretty often these days."

"Wouldn't have expected it from the most magical place on earth," Tony replied cheerfully. "I mean, you seem like a pretty chipper guy, what with the whole 'winning smile on your face while stabbing me in the back with  _ Eleanor Rigby_' thing."

Steve snorted. "You said it yourself. I'm diabolical."

"Yeah, I'm seeing that. I hope your name is as diabolical as your personality," Tony said. His voice was light, casual, but Steve could pick up the curiosity in it. "What is it? Azazel? Lucifer? Seth?"

"Steve."

"Steve!" Tony snapped his fingers. "Of course. Well, I'm onto you now, Steve. You're gonna get me to my car and then take my kidneys, aren't you?"

Someone ahead of them was having a smoke near one of the entrances, and Steve nodded at him as they walked past. "Don't be silly. There's obviously too many witnesses around."

"But you'd take them otherwise, right?"

"From you?" Steve twisted his lips, trying not to smile. "No, I don't think I would. I have higher standards than that."

Tony's eyes went wide at that, and he let out a dramatic gasp, stepping ahead of Steve and walking backwards so they were facing each other. "Excuse me, have you  _ seen _ me? Let's be real, sweetheart, standards really can't get much higher than this."

There it was again. Casual chatter was one thing, but this—whatever this was—was another. It wasn't something Steve came across very often. How could it have been? With the growing rumors about the epidemic, it had become so much more difficult to be fully open with his preferences. But Tony was here, saying these things—saying them to  _ Steve_. Like he could tell, maybe.

Well. Might as well have some fun with it.

So he shrugged, giving Tony a once-over and an easy grin. "Yeah, I see you. And?"

"And you're hopeless, apparently," Tony said with a long-suffering sigh, arms spread wide. "Not that I was expecting much else."

Tony was having his fun, too. Steve decided he would play along. "You must have had  _ some _ hope for me, considering you came onto me earlier."

"What, that little comment I made that sent you into a coughing fit?" Tony replied, smooth as silk. "Apple pie, that wasn't coming on to  _ you_."

"No?"

"Nope," Tony said, popping the "p" at the end. "I'm sorry to say, but that's just how I act with everyone." He was doing the same thing Steve had done to him a moment ago, eyes roving up and down his body, and Steve had to wonder if that was maybe actually true, if an artist, a musician like Tony would see Steve in his office-approved business-casual dress shirt and his business-casual slacks and find him lacking.

And then their eyes met again, and those concerns vanished into thin air, even if his next words made it sound like the opposite.

"I feel nothing for you at all," Tony said, and Steve laughed.

"Consider the lack of feeling returned," he replied.

Tony grinned as he swiveled around and fell back into step with him. A second later, he paused, nodding at one of the cars ahead of them. "Well, would you look at that. You actually did take me to the visitor parking after all, and I still have both my kidneys."

"That can still change."

"High standards, remember?" Tony said, reaching into his pocket to fish out his keys.

Steve realized then that they were heading toward what was frankly one of the most obnoxious cars in the lot, a bright red convertible with its top down. A nice car, to be sure, but... wow. "Is this yours?"

"No, I just have the keys for it," Tony said, rolling his eyes. He unlocked the door, then hesitated. "Say..."

"Steve!" someone called from behind them, and Steve turned to see the coworker they'd passed by earlier jogging in their direction. He still had a lit cigarette in his hand. "You leaving yet? I figured since you're still here, before you go, maybe we could talk about some stuff before the weekend..."

Steve glanced back at Tony, who was putting his guitar in the backseat, his expression unreadable. "I..."

"You should have this conversation," Tony replied. He flashed him a smile, though Steve didn't know what to make of it. "At this rate, we'll see each other again... let's see, it's April now? Following that pattern, we'll meet again in August."

"Yeah," Steve said helplessly, even if he didn't share the same dubious optimism. He had a first name, a former place of employment, and... and that was it. But with their space intruded on, it was unlikely that this would now change. "I'll... I'll see you around."

Tony slid into the seat of his car, closing the door decisively. "Until next time, apple pie."

With a roar, the engine started up, and Steve could only give him a half-hearted wave as he backed out of his spot and drove off before finally turning back to the remaining company.

"Wanna keep walking?" the coworker asked, letting out another puff of smoke. "Or do you wanna take a seat after doing all those laps around the campus?"

*

After the party, Steve tried not to think about  _ Eleanor Rigby _ or violins or if he would ever actually even see Tony again. It got easier, if only because work got harder. He was starting to think that maybe he needed to do something very drastic, since it was becoming increasingly clear that nothing was going to change on its own.

Then one evening, only a few days later, Steve stepped out of the office and all those work thoughts flew straight out of his head.

Because there was Tony sitting on the lawn outside the main building, strumming a guitar without a care in the world in the ever-darkening night, seemingly uncaring about what any passers-by would think about a random man playing music by himself. When Steve got closer, Tony glanced up, and the smile he gave him almost made Steve feel like the sun had come out for one last hurrah.

"What the hell," Tony said in greeting, but that smile was still on his face so really, how grumpy could he be? "What kind of hours do you work? Do you know how long I've been out here?"

Steve could feel his own lips quirking upward in return. "Oh, so you admit right off the bat that you were waiting for me? Don't you think that's just a little bit creepy? I mean, you didn't even wait 'til August. It's still April."

"I think it's more creepy if I try and come up with some other reason," Tony said as he pushed himself off the ground, standing and dusting his pants off. "Cut me some slack, apple pie. I tried to do this the normal way, but the receptionist said that telling her to look for 'a Steve who obnoxiously shows off his forearms by rolling up his sleeves and who also looks kind of good while choking on something' wasn't the kind of specificity she needed."

"Jesus, Tony," Steve said, but his foolish brain just made him smile even more. He discreetly glanced down at himself, confirming that his sleeves were currently rolled up. "So, what, you just set up camp here to wait for me?"

"That is correct." Tony turned, starting to put his guitar away. "Which brings me to my original question: what the hell kind of hours do you work?"

Steve waved a hand. "Oh, you know. It's just standard overtime. We have a deadline and working normal hours isn't gonna get it done soon enough. So, here I am even though I'd much rather be home."

Tony hummed, considering it. "But you're working here, so you must be... animating, I guess? That your job? I'd have thought you enjoyed the work."

"Did you enjoy playing in that cover band?"

"Point," Tony conceded. He paused. "Still," he then added in that same light tone he'd used before, where he was trying so hard to sound casual but not quite making it, "I wouldn't mind seeing. If you were willing."

Steve glanced back at the building he'd come out of. He'd been the last to leave; no one else would be around. And though he'd originally wanted to go home, Tony being here changed everything.

"Yeah," he said. "Come on."

He led Tony to the door, where he let them both inside, then down the hall until they reached the large, open room where he worked. Though only a few of the lights were still on, the layout was clear: animator's desks were lined up in rows across the room, each one with some mixture of half-painted backgrounds, cels, and reference material scattered about. At the sight, Tony let out a low whistle. "And I thought  _ my _ workspace was messy," he said. "Which one is yours?"

Steve laughed, leading Tony to one desk in the corner of the room. "Here we are." His decor was minimal compared to some of the others—he needed most of the space for his actual work—but what little there was was probably a bit... old-fashioned. There was, of course, the requisite dwarf figurine—practically everyone had one; his was Sleepy—and then some of the other usual suspects: Superman, Tweety, Bambi. Finally, he'd devoted a small section of his wall to stunningly low-resolution stills from early animations done by other countries— _Princess Iron Fan_ ,  _ The Humpbacked Horse_,  _ The Rose of Baghdad_. He supposed he liked waxing nostalgic on the history of his chosen profession.

"So this is where the magic happens," Tony mused. He reached over to one of the switches on the desk, turning the lightbox on and off. "Well, I guess if you're not enjoying it, it's not really magic, is it?"

"Maybe I should clarify," Steve said, watching as Tony ran his fingers over the plexiglass of the disc. "I enjoy making art and bringing it to life. And I enjoy training the juniors, giving them critiques, letting them bounce ideas off of me. I think I'm pretty okay at that. And I'm the lead animator for this project, so I get to oversee a lot of stuff and watch it all come together. I just... don't actually like what that final product is headed for."

"Why not?"

Steve hesitated, not sure how interesting his work woes would actually be. Still, Tony had asked, so he might as well answer. "Well, in the end, this is a company," he replied at last. "So we end up constrained on a lot of stuff where budget is concerned." Tony didn't reply immediately—he was now looking through the drawers—so Steve continued, "There's stuff I'd love to try—backlighting, having multiple color palettes, even non-animation things like just... not having to stick to a G rating, but—hey, wait a second, that's private!"

Tony had dug out a sketchbook from beneath all the other stuff in his drawer, and he was flipping through it now, head tilted. "So do it yourself," he said.

"What?"

"Do it yourself," Tony repeated. "You just said it. You're a lead. You oversee everything and you have incredible talent. Get some people together and make your own animation. Create whatever it is you want to create."

Steve was still trying to process the unexpected compliment, but he forced himself to focus on the rest of it instead. "I... I don't know what I'd want to create..."

"So what's this, then?" Tony flipped to one of the pages, holding it out to Steve.

It was a bunch of character sketches he'd come up with for an idea he'd been toying with in his head: a group of heroes, coming together despite their differences to defeat a common enemy. Dynamics like a man out of time having to work with a man who was a futurist. There was a lot he'd come up with already, but there was even more that he hadn't quite nailed down yet. He just hadn't had the time to spare.

A little helplessly, he shrugged. "Just scribbles."

Tony flipped the sketchbook shut, putting it back into the drawer. "If you're trying to fish for more compliments, it's not gonna work. I said what I said. But I did mean it."

"Thanks... I think," Steve said. It was strange, having voiced these thoughts for the first time, and to a man he barely even knew. And then to feel  _ validated_—he probably needed some time to process that. For now, he was keen to turn the spotlight away from him. "Anyway, enough about me. How are you holding up? You've been carrying that guitar case around this whole time."  _ Smooth, Rogers. _

"Oh, so we're talking about me now?" Tony said. "I'm just peachy keen tonight, Walt. But I'm sure that's not what you're asking."

He was starting to move around now, checking out the other desks, and so Steve followed him. "I guess I'm curious about the guitar," he admitted. "That first night I saw you, you... you were really something else with that violin. I'd never heard anything like it before. But these last two times you've been carrying a guitar instead."

"So I've lost my mysterious charm because now I'm just like any other wannabe musician out there, right?"

Steve blanched. "No!" he choked out. "No, that's not what I meant at all—I just—"

"Relax, I'm kidding," Tony replied. He was smiling, so Steve could only hope he meant it. "The violin is my instrument of choice, but the guitar pays more of the bills and is generally less likely to make security throw me out if I sit outside someone's office for a few hours playing it."

"Ha, ha," Steve said. "I'm sure you could pay the bills with the violin, too, if you just played what other people wanted. You seem to be doing that with the guitar in your cover band."

Tony shook his head. "It's... different," he said. "Don't get me wrong—I enjoy the guitar. And I'm good at it. But I grew up with the violin. I guess it was the first real thing I ever made a choice on, you know? 'What instrument should I learn?' Because my mom and my old man—both classical pianists. Imagine the pressure. So I bucked their expectations and said I'll play something, but not the piano. They grudgingly paid for violin lessons instead, and twenty years and a Juilliard education later, here I am in sunny California, scraping by in a 60s cover band."

"Because you're looking for something here that you couldn't find in a concert hall," Steve mused, which earned him a surprised look from Tony, though no other response. It... almost seemed like he was waiting for Steve to continue, wanting to see what he got right. Well, he supposed he could try. So he continued, "You were playing the kind of melody that I could see a guitarist playing. Rock music. That's the kind of music you want to play on your violin. But the concert halls don't want rock, and rock bands don't want violin. So that's what you're trying to figure out now. Is that the gist of it?"

Tony blinked a few times, looking mildly surprised. "Nice deductive work, Batman. Should I be glad or offended that my life story is apparently an open book?"

Steve laughed, pleased he'd been on the mark. "Glad, I hope. For the record,  _ I _ like what you're doing."

"Well, that's good to hear," Tony said. "Because unless you're a lot older than you look, you seem on the young side to be a lead at a world-famous company. I had to impress you  _ somehow_."

"So you're trying to impress me."

"Not trying," Tony clarified. "Clearly I already have."

For some reason, Steve felt like he'd just walked face-first into a trap, and he sputtered uselessly in response. "No one said anything about that!"

"No one had to."

They'd finished slowly circling the room and were now standing at the hallway that would lead them back outside. "Guess my private tour is coming to an end, huh?" Tony continued.

"Not sure how much of a tour it was," Steve said, reluctantly walking toward the exit. "I feel like I didn't really show you much."

" _Au contraire_ ," Tony replied. "I think it was a perfectly informative visit. So thanks, apple pie."

"You're welcome." Steve opened the door for Tony, who raised an eyebrow but walked through. Once it had shut behind them, Steve took a deep breath, then blurted out, "I'd like to do this again."

Tony turned to face him, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Steve hesitated, then ventured, "A movie, maybe? There's that  _ E.T. _ flick everyone's talking about..." He felt stupid as soon as the words left his mouth.  _ E.T. _ was a children's film, and Tony was a grown man. He surely wouldn't care for something so juvenile.

"Maybe," Tony said, and Steve felt vindicated in the worst way. "But isn't there that other cartoon that's coming out? Something about a unicorn?"

" _The Last Unicorn_?" Steve supplied, half-afraid he was hearing wrong. "You'd want to see that?"

Tony shrugged. "It's your thing, isn't it? So why not. It's playing at seven-thirty at the Vista this Saturday. You free?"

"How did you..." Steve began, then stopped. Maybe it wasn't something he needed to question. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Perfect," Tony said, clasping his hands together. He started walking toward his car, turning back briefly to flash a smile at him. "Saturday, seven-thirty. Don't forget!"

"I won't!" Steve called back.

He stood there like an idiot for a few moments longer, and it wasn't until Tony waved goodbye at him as he drove out of the parking lot that he realized he'd had the dopiest grin on his face the whole time.

*

"That was actually a lot more depressing than I thought it would be."

They were leaving the theatre now. Tony had been a few minutes late, but he'd been able to find Steve sitting in the back, and the movie went by without an issue. Steve wasn't sure what Tony had felt, but though he wanted to try taking his hand, putting an arm around him,  _ something_, well, they were in a public space and he didn't know how Tony felt about that when they were both men. So he'd kept to himself, and Tony had done the same.

Still, he'd enjoyed the movie—it was always a treat to see something animated—and he could only hope Tony had, too. "Was it? I kind of like it when it's not a happily-ever-after. She'll always keep him in her heart. I think that's lovely."

"I think 'lovely' would have been a happily-ever-after," Tony said. "But I'm glad you liked it. You know what I liked?"   
"What?"

"The ocean shots." He clapped his hands together, beaming at Steve. "We should go to the beach."

Steve blinked. "You mean... tomorrow, or something?"

"No, I mean right now. Come on. It's a ten-minute walk from here."

"But it's dark out."

"Yeah, why do you think I'm suggesting it? This is a great time to go."

This all seemed somewhat suspect to Steve, but Tony was clearly into the idea, so finally he nodded along. "If you say so. Lead the way."

"I can tell you're indulging me," Tony said, but he didn't seem to mind the thought. "But you'll see soon enough."

They peeled away from the rest of the crowd, heading down a dimly-lit street that seemed to be getting increasingly residential. Steve had no idea where they were going, but Tony seemed sure, and so Steve was content to follow him. Soon enough, the street curved, and along the sidewalk was a wooden staircase that led down into... well, sand. And the beach.

"Huh," he said.

Tony laughed, heading down the stairs and slipping out of his shoes. "You had no idea this was here, did you? Take your shoes off—getting sand in them sucks."

Steve did as instructed, and once they were both barefoot, Tony led them closer to the water. It was windy and pleasantly cool, and without much in the way of visuals—the sky was cloudy for once, and the moon was obscured—the thing Steve found himself most aware of was the dull roar of the waves as they moved along the shore.

"Nice, isn't it?" Tony said.

"I'm afraid I'm going to step on a crab or something."

"I'll defend you against any evil crabs, I promise. Come on, apple pie, relax a bit."

Steve nodded absentmindedly, trying to banish the more mundane worries running through his head. If he didn't fret over the possibility of stepping on something unpleasant, or the logistics of cleaning off their feet after they were done here, he could admit to himself that he kind of liked the way the sand squished around his toes.

And, well, maybe there was something else here he liked too.

For several minutes, they walked in the relative silence, gazing out at the ocean stretching out ahead of them. But at some point, there was new movement, and Steve looked down to see that Tony had removed one hand from his pocket despite the fact that it was a bit on the chilly side.

He wondered what Tony's hand felt like, whether there were any calluses. Did playing violin callus the fingers? He wasn't sure, not that he minded either way. What else could those fingers do?

Tony turned his head slightly, and Steve was quick to avert his gaze, not wanting to be caught staring. "I moved here about two years ago, after I finally got burned out trying to be a respectable violinist," he said. "And taking advantage of how close the beach was was one of the first things I did. I mean, I lived close to the shore before, but it's just harbors and piers. Not like this."

"Yeah?" Steve asked. "Where you from?"

"The one place in the world that might have even more of a reputation than L.A.," Tony replied with a snort, spreading his hands wide. "New York City."

Steve tilted his head. What were the chances? "Same."

"You're kidding."

"Brooklyn, born and raised."

Tony chuckled. "That explains the accent. Not that it's heavy or anything—it's barely there, really, but barely there is still there."

Steve wasn't sure how he felt about that, and he said as much. "I would have thought all those years on the opposite coast would have gotten rid of it."

"I'm glad it didn't," Tony offered. "It's nice."

They fell silent again after that, and once more, Steve found his eyes drawn to Tony's hand. Hesitantly, he removed his own hand from his pocket as well, swinging it alongside Tony's. Then Tony glanced down, and again Steve looked away until it was safe to turn back.

His hand was so close. Steve swallowed, then inched his own hand toward him, his pinky brushing against Tony's. From beside him, he thought he could hear Tony breathe in sharply—and then their pinkies were clasped, swinging together side by side. Praying he was reading this right, Steve turned his hand a little, fingers reaching out so he could hold Tony's hand properly.

And Tony—Tony took it, and then he exhaled. Had he been holding his breath the whole time? Regardless, he looked back at Steve again, and even in the darkness his eyes were large and expressive.

"Steve," he said.

They'd stopped walking and were instead just standing there in the sand looking at each other, hands clasped. Very slowly, Tony tipped his head forward, and Steve followed suit. He could feel the warmth of Tony's breath against his lips. Then—

The  _ chop-chop-chop _ of a helicopter sounded out of nowhere, and suddenly there was a glaring light in their eyes. On instinct, Steve let go of Tony, bringing his hand up to shield his face—but in the next second, the light had disappeared: the helicopter swerved and went in another direction, continuing down the coast.

"What the hell," Tony declared, and Steve couldn't help but laugh.

*

Zero crabs later, Steve was back on the sidewalk, feet safely in his shoes and Tony beside him. The thought of a helicopter flying around the beach searching for something while they were there had been a little off-putting, so they'd decided to call it a night and head back to their cars. One thing was different now, though: Tony had decided to take his hand as they walked back down the residential street, and Steve was happy to let it happen. He wasn't sure how Tony felt about being... open with all this normally, but right now, it was late and dark and Steve could pretend that the world consisted of just the two of them.

As it turned out, though, the sky had one more surprise in store.

The movie theatre had just come into view, and Steve was privately lamenting the end of the evening when he felt wetness on his face. He paused, looking up at the clouds, and was rewarded with a drop of rain right in his eye.

"Oh, shit, my car," Tony muttered as the rain started coming down harder. He turned toward Steve, hesitating. "I'll call you. Wait, I don't have your number. You got anything to write on? No? Uh, okay. I'll stop by your office again. Monday, noon. That work?"

"Yeah," Steve said, a little breathlessly. "I'll see you then."

"See you!" Tony dashed off toward the parking lot, jumping over the door and into his seat, and Steve watched as the convertible roof slid into place. The lights then turned on, and Tony backed out of his spot and swerved out of the lot.

Well, no more point in standing here and getting more wet, Steve thought, so he headed to his own car, bringing out his keys—and that was when he heard a car pulling up from somewhere behind him.

It was Tony. Of course it was Tony. The door opened, and Tony practically stumbled out, closing the distance between himself and Steve. "Sorry, I forgot something important—" he started, and then they were kissing, arms wrapped tight around each other, and for a brief, glorious moment, as the rain came down increasingly hard around them, Steve had no idea where he ended and Tony began.

*

In the weeks that followed, everything seemed to just come together.

They exchanged numbers—finally. They went on dates that they actually acknowledged were dates. They visited each other's places.

"Formal introductions need to be made," Tony had declared upon Steve's first visit to his apartment. It was modestly-sized, but an absurd amount of space seemed to be taken up by what Steve assumed was assorted music-related equipment, though among all the electronic-looking things, Tony's violin, which he was reaching for now, seemed to stick out.

"This is Jarvis," he continued.

Steve stared at it. "You named your violin," he said, deadpan.

"Yes," Tony replied, and he didn't seem to be bothered by Steve's tone at all. "He's elegant. Classic. A part of high society. I love Jarvis. And whether you say it or not, I know you love Jarvis too, because Jarvis is what brought us together."

He supposed he couldn't really argue against that.

Taking Steve's lack of reply as an admission, Tony cheerily continued on. "But Jarvis has a friend, and let me tell you—she is beautiful. Maybe not as beautiful as you, sweetheart, but it's pretty close. Have a look." He was holding up something that... kind of looked like a violin, but only the middle part with the strings and fingerboard and chinrest, and there wasn't a hint of wood or a familiar f-shape in sight.

"...Where's the rest of it?" Steve asked.

Tony laughed. "There is no rest of it, not yet. I'm still waiting for inspiration to strike, 'cause she can pretty much take any shape she wants and it needs to be good."

Steve wasn't sure he understood, but he supposed he wasn't exactly an expert on acoustics. "Okay. So what's her name?"

"This is my girl Friday," Tony said, gazing at her lovingly, "and she's an electric violin. I've been working on her for a while. Want to hear her in action?"

"You really didn't have to ask," Steve assured him. "Yes, please."

Tony beamed at him, then took his bow and started tuning the strings. Even though Steve knew rationally that it was a relatively simple action, one taken by nearly every violinist before they started playing, watching Tony do it was enchanting. When he was done, he pressed something on his electronic keyboard, which caused a pre-recorded beat to come on—and he started  _ playing_.

It was the same tune Steve had heard all those months ago, the one that had grabbed his attention and kept him frozen in place: clearly rock, but in a medium he'd never heard it being played in before, and by someone who was so clearly passionate about what he was doing. Entranced, he watched Tony's fingers dance across the strings, the tune upbeat but also with a hint of melancholy, his heart beating in time with the music as it reached a crescendo—

And then, just like that first night, it came to an abrupt end. Steve blinked, taken aback as Tony lowered his violin. "Sorry, apple pie," he said with a smile. "That's all I've come up with for now."

"All you've come up with," Steve repeated. "Wait, then you're saying you wrote that music."

Tony laughed. "Of course I did," he said. "I'm never gonna make it big if I don't play my own songs. I'm working on some lyrics, too, but those are also still in progress."

"You sing?"

"I sing, and lest we forget, I also play multiple instruments,  _ and _ I built Friday myself. Yeah, keep that awestruck expression on your face—I like seeing it there."

Though part of Steve suspected that maybe he shouldn't be feeding Tony's ego, he was just so—so  _ amazing _ that he really couldn't help it.

It made him wonder, at the beginning, what Tony could have possibly have seen in him in return. Here was Tony, an artist, a free spirit, and then here was Steve, who was also an artist, but... different. Tony dreamed of playing rock violin in front of crowded stadiums, and in comparison, Steve's own dreams seemed so childish.

But somehow, Tony seemed awed by him in return. Steve showed him a short film he and his coworkers had worked on during their off hours— _Redwing the Falcon_ , they'd called it, since apparently they were all terrible at naming things. It was about a falcon on an island seeing fire for the first time and had been made as an exercise in different kinds of lighting, since they all knew that their current work project wasn't going to let them do anything fun like that anytime soon. There were no voices, only sound effects and production music, and it was barely fifteen minutes long, but Tony was enchanted nonetheless.

"You made this. In your home," Tony said.

"Well, not just me," Steve corrected hastily. "It was my idea, but there were nine others who were part of this. Sam did most of the character concepts—Redwing is his baby. Sharon did most of the plot. We all helped storyboard and animate, and then I edited it at the end."

"Okay," Tony replied. "So you and nine others made this in your homes. Holy shit."

"Thanks. I think."

Tony rewound the VHS and started playing it again. "You know, I said it that other night when you were showing me your office, but it bears repeating. If this is the kind of art you want to spend your life working on... do it. Leave your current gig and start up your own thing. Take those nine other guys and make another film. This right here... I mean, this is proof enough you're capable." He flashed Steve a grin. "Not that I needed the proof, 'cause I already knew. But still."

The words stirred hope in him, but his doubts remained. "Leaving is such a big step, though," he managed. "And I don't know if I'd be able to get the others to do anything."

"Steve, you got nine other people to do work things off the clock. You were passionate and you inspired them and now you have this film. If you're all as disillusioned with your current project as it sounds, do you really think it's so impossible to inspire them to leave so you can do something better?"

There was a pause. "Maybe not," Steve finally admitted, and Tony smiled.

*

One by one, Steve met some of Tony's other friends—actual people, not instruments. There was Rhodey, one of Tony's classmates at Juilliard, who was currently on tour with another band called The War Hammers. Then there was Pepper, who was getting an MBA in finance but apparently played a mean set of drums. And finally, there was Happy, who was a bassist and, frankly, incredibly solid when it came to music theory.

This was the dream team, Tony had explained. They were all amazingly talented and, most importantly, they loved the thought of a band with a violin. The downside: their other obligations stopped them from actually making said band.

Tony had said it was fine, that he needed the time anyway to perfect Friday, who had function but not much form, and he and Happy sometimes got together to play and write music, so at least he had some sort of outlet. But was the plan to just wait for Rhodey's contract to end and Pepper to graduate? How long was that going to take? The questions were on the tip of Steve's tongue, but the topic seemed to make Tony restless, and so Steve kept his mouth shut.

At the very least, Steve was very much convinced that the four of them were indeed a dream team. One evening, months into their relationship, all of their schedules had aligned perfectly: Steve had got to see them in a club performing some music that Tony and Happy had written, with Tony playing Jarvis and taking on the role of lead vocalist. After their set was done, the five of them had hung around for drinks and chatter until the others eventually left, leaving just Steve and Tony there playing footsie under the table.

It wasn't that long after when a woman approached them, looking uncertain. "Tony? That you?"

Tony turned, and upon seeing her, broke into a smile—though there was something off about it. "Maya. Long time, no see."

Maya smiled in return. "God, you know how long I've been trying to get in touch with you? I lost your number a while back, and my own number changed, so I thought that was the end of it. I can't believe I found you here today."

"Lucky, isn't it?"

"Honestly, it really is. I actually saw you playing earlier. Nice violin work. But have you been keeping up with the guitar?"

Maybe Steve was imagining it, but he almost felt like he could see Tony's smile falter. "Why?"

"Wellllll," Maya began, drawing out the word. "We lost our 'I'."

Steve had no idea what that meant. Well, he had no idea about anything that was happening right now, really. Tony glanced back at him and seemed to realize as much, if that apologetic look on his face was anything to go by. "Maya, this is Steve, by the way. And Steve—this is Maya. We've—played together before. She's the singer-bassist in AIM."

"It's an acronym," Maya added. "I'm the 'M'."

"And good ol' Aldrich is the 'A'," Tony chimed in. "And, I must add—he's also  _ an _ 'a'. An a-hole, specifically. Short for asshole, just in case I wasn't clear."

Steve raised his mug to his lips in an attempt to hide his laugh. Maya just sighed. "Be nice, Tony," she said. "I know you two aren't exactly friends, but you and  _ I _ are friends, so just hear me out, okay? Yes, Aldrich is still there, and he's on drums, so what we're missing now is—"

"Lead guitarist," Tony finished. "And you want me to fill that role. Even though—"

"I know you'd rather play the violin. But we have a guitar spot, not a violin spot, and I know you can handle it. Besides, it pays."

Tony blinked and stared at her for a moment. Finally, though, he shook his head. "I'm busy."

"Alright," Maya said. She didn't sound particularly surprised. Instead, she pulled out a pen and a notepad out of her purse, scribbling something onto one page before ripping it out and sliding it in his direction. "Well, here's my new number in case you want to catch up. I need to take off now, but give me a call one of these days, okay? Nice meeting you, Steve."

Steve managed a nod in return before she turned and left. Tony, meanwhile, was staring at the piece of paper. "Fucking AIM," he said, but he nonetheless folded her number neatly in half and tucked it away into a pocket.

"Sounds like there's a story there," Steve ventured after a few seconds.

Tony's expression was sour, but he looped one leg around Steve's, so at least he wasn't upset at Steve for asking. "She was one of the first people I met here, before Pepper and Happy. We hit it off. And, just so all my cards are on the table, yes, we slept together. But mostly we played music. Then she became buddies with this asshole named Aldrich and... well, I guess the short of it is that I left over creative differences."

Steve supposed he could see that. Tony certainly had strong opinions about music. "So you're not gonna take her up on her offer? Maybe this Aldrich fella is less of an asshole now."

Tony rolled his eyes. "A likely story," he said. "Besides, if I join, I'll wreck their acronym. What are the chances that they'll rename their band to ATM for me?"

"Probably pretty low," Steve admitted.

"See? So let's get away from that very unpleasant topic and move on to better things. Where'd we leave off on the storyboards you were telling me about?"

*

"This is amazing."

"I'm pretty sure you're just saying that."

"Sweetheart, if I was just saying that I wouldn't have bothered in the first place."

A little flustered, Steve leaned over, starting to gather all the storyboards he'd laid out on the floor of their living room—the culmination of months of hard work, once Tony had started encouraging him to create something of his own. "Well... either way, this is just a single scene from what's gonna be a cartoon movie for kids. So the bar is low."

"Don't bullshit," Tony said as he crouched over and joined in. "You know it's more than just that. And besides—a good story is a good story. You think people give Madeleine L'Engle shit because  _ A Wrinkle in Time _ is for teens?"

"I guess not," Steve said, staring down at the cast of characters he'd drawn out. "Still. It's risky pushing for an original story. Investors like something safe. They like fairy tales. Book adaptations. That kind of thing."

Tony picked up a few more storyboards, handing them to Steve before sitting back down on the carpet. "And they'll like this, too. Sam seen these yet?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"He says Falcon is going to be the greatest animated character ever."

"Okay, well, clearly he and I are going to have some irreconcilable differences regarding who the best Avenger is," Tony said. "But either way, he's a grown-ass adult and he's excited. And I'm a grown-ass adult who's excited. So now you have two grown-ass adults who are excited. It's honestly shockingly easy to imagine that there might be other grown-ass adults, ones with a lot of money to throw around and a studio, who will also be excited. So just accept it."

Steve ducked his head, smiling. God, the amount of faith Tony had in him sometimes... it was almost overwhelming. He felt like he could do anything, which was both dangerous and thrilling. "I made something for you," he blurted out before he could get emotional about it all.

"Oh?"

Buried in one of his sketchbooks was something he'd been working on. He pulled it out now, flipping to the right page. "I know Friday still doesn't have a body, and you haven't had much of a chance to work on it," he began. "So... I made some concept sketches..."

Intrigued, Tony pulled the sketchbook toward him. "Concept, huh?"

"Just as a jumping-off point," Steve added hastily. "I don't expect this to be used as-is."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Tony fell silent then, though his finger started to trace over the curve of Steve's ink lines. It was strange for him to not be talkative, and Steve despaired. Maybe he'd overstepped. Tony was perfectly capable of designing his own violin. Hell, he could do anything he put his mind to. Why did Steve have to interfere with his creative process?

"Maybe I should try and explain it," he said, because the silence was driving him crazy. "I thought—you'd want something unusual, because, well, you're you, aren't you? So I didn't want just a regular violin shape. But then I thought, maybe I didn't want something that was so... rock 'n' roll, either, because I wanted to call back to the fact that you're classically trained, and I needed something that seemed elegant enough. So." Tony was looking at him now, and the words in Steve's throat became even harder to force out. "It's meant to be an infinity symbol," he finished weakly.

"Infinity," Tony repeated. Next thing Steve knew, he was laying back on the carpet, one hand over his eyes. "Oh, my God."

_ Oh, my God_, Steve thought in return as he looked at Tony lying there. He'd botched it. "I'm sorry," he said.

"You'll be sorry if you don't get down here right now," Tony replied.

"What?"

"Get  _ down _ here," Tony insisted, and when Steve wasn't quick enough to move, Tony reached up and pulled him into a kiss that he could only helplessly melt into. When they parted, Tony was gazing up at him. "This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. Not the kiss, I mean, though that was nice too. Just... you put so much thought into this. And the  _ symbolism_. Jesus."

Steve laid down beside him, adjusting the two of them so that Tony's head wouldn't have to be on the floor. "So you're—"

"Going to use this exactly as-is. Well, and paint it hot-rod red. But otherwise use it exactly as-is."

It was an indulgent thought, like Tony would be taking a part of Steve with him every time he went on the stage, and Steve took a moment to enjoy it. "The world's gonna love you," he said.

"No," Tony replied. "They're gonna love  _ us_."

He reached down to take Steve's hand, and Steve prayed to himself that they could always be like this.

*

"Eight in the morning is an unholy hour to be calling, you know that, right, platypus? ...Okay, well, time zones are bullshit."

Steve smiled to himself as he set his Walkman down on the counter, having just returned from his run. It sounded like Rhodey was on the other line. The fact that he knew to now call Steve's number to reach Tony made him feel satisfaction deep in his bones, even if he couldn't fully articulate why. Maybe it was just nice not being a secret. Tony had moved in with him in December—"To commemorate the one-year anniversary of you laying eyes on me for the first time," Tony had joked—and his friends had known it and were okay with it.

While Tony clearly wasn't concerned about being overheard from the bedroom, Steve didn't want to consciously eavesdrop, so he puttered around the kitchen to prepare something to eat. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but hear occasional snatches of their conversation—some catch-up, some music talk, and a lot of what sounded like venting regarding their run-in with Maya from a few weeks ago.

"She asked me to join AIM," he finished. "Except, you know, Aldrich exists. How long until you can save me from other people trying to pick me up? When does your contract with Hammer end?" The answer was evidently distasteful, if the soft  _ ugh _ was anything to go by. Then the topic seemed to change, because his next response was, "Nuh uh, sourpatch, you don't get to hear about my boyfriend's super secret project, not yet. He's still working on it on the side. Once he finds the time to finish it up, maybe I'll deign to share the details with you."

There was a long pause after that. Steve had no idea if Rhodey's reply was just lengthy, or if Tony couldn't think of a good reply, because once he finally did speak again, it was just, "Oh."

It was starting to feel a bit awkward listening in, even if it wasn't on purpose. Steve started making a conscious effort not to hear anything as he ate, and by the time he was done, Tony had apparently finished up his call, because he was now coming out of the bedroom, already dressed.

"Going somewhere?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Tony said, picking up his guitar case and slipping his sunglasses on. "But don't really know the details yet. I'll tell you about it when I get back. Don't get into too much trouble at work today, alright?" He stopped long enough to press a kiss to Steve's cheek, and before Steve could ask anything further, he was gone.

*

"I visited AIM's studio today," Tony confessed.

They'd just finished dinner and were sharing a bowl of blueberries now. Beside the bowl, Tony's hand was drumming the table nervously.

"How was it?" Steve asked, because he figured that was a pretty neutral question, and he didn't want to ask anything too leading, given Tony's evident anxiousness.

Tony sighed, fingers still moving. "They're good. Aldrich's still an asshole, but he's a hell of a drummist. And obviously Maya's no slouch either. They gave me some chord sheets and... it wasn't bad." His lips twitched. "And, well, I was the lead guitarist. I had some  _ very _ nice solo riffs."

Steve tried an encouraging smile. "So you enjoyed yourself?" he asked, because whatever Tony was doing, Steve wanted him to be happy doing it.

"It was better than I expected," Tony replied. Which... wasn't really a proper answer to his question, but Steve let it slide for now. "Maya said the spot's still open, if I wanted it. They tried some other guitarists but they weren't as good, which, you know, no surprises there. And the rev share deal is incredible. It's tempting. It's very tempting."

"If that's what you want, you should do it," Steve said.

"Yeah," Tony agreed. His gaze went distant for a bit. Steve let him think, eating the last of the blueberries since no one else was. "With the money, you could quit, you know. And focus on the Avengers full time."

Steve blinked, wondering if he'd heard right. "Quit?" he repeated. He'd thought about it, but... it was so risky. His job paid decently, and right now, the Avengers were just a side project of his. Sure, at some point he wanted to make it real, but the logistics of it were something that future Steve would have to figure out, not present Steve.

"You heard me. Don't pretend it hasn't crossed your mind. Can you imagine how much faster you'd be able to work? So much more time to tighten up the plot, storyboard the rest of it, get a demo reel together. And the sooner you do that, the sooner you can shop it around to investors. To poach Sam and Sharon and the rest when you inevitably get picked up. A timeline of years could become a timeline of months."

It all made sense, of course. But... "You really wouldn't mind? Supporting me?"

"Why the hell would I mind that?" Tony said. He reached forward, taking Steve's hand and holding it tightly. "It's you."

The earnestness of his words, the intensity of his gaze—they left Steve breathless, as they so often did. God, he was a lucky man. "Let me think about it," he said at last. "If I do this, there's some stuff at work I gotta wrap up."

"That's my man," Tony replied, beaming, like Steve had already agreed to it all. "Now that that's settled—I've been spending way too much time today playing other people's music. Mind watching me practice?"

Steve squeezed his hand, then pulled him closer to place a kiss against his nose. "Why the hell would I mind?" he echoed with a soft smile. "It's you."

*

That night, Tony played that same upbeat, melancholy tune that Steve had first heard in the restaurant all those months ago. The melody was almost complete now, but the lyrics were still in a limbo state if the scribbled mess of words in Tony's notebook was anything to go by. Everything in there looked deeply romantic.

"Someday I'll actually finish this song," Tony told him. "And I'll dedicate it to you."

*

Steve quit his job.

"You better come back for us when you get something going," Sam told him at the end of his going-away party, and Steve laughed and told him of course he would.

From there, it became day after day of obsessively working on the script, getting on calls with Sam and Sharon and the others for advice—because when this took off, and God, it would take off; it  _ had _ to—he fully intended on having them by his side, bringing this to life with him. The floors of his home were littered with storyboards, and he was starting to gear up on the things he'd need for the demo reel—backgrounds and color palettes and character references and everything else.

He'd work until midnight, and then he'd clean up as best as he could before Tony got home. When exactly that was, Steve wasn't sure. All he knew was that when he woke up for his morning run, Tony was sprawled in bed deeply asleep, and Steve would just spend a few minutes looking at him and running his fingers gently through his hair before finally pulling away. And then, hours later, Tony would wake, and he'd muddle his way through an omelette before kissing Steve on the cheek, sticking on his sunglasses, and heading out to practice with the band.

Two months after Tony signed on with AIM, he appeared in an article in  _ Rolling Stone_, along with Maya and the Aldrich guy. The pictures were polished, sharp, intense. It was a good look for him. Steve bought two issues, because he'd realized he didn't have any pictures of Tony and having an extra copy of the magazine lying around made him feel a little less lonely. (He tried to ignore how pathetic that sounded.)

A week later, AIM held a concert in the L.A. Forum.

Steve was there—of course he was there; he wouldn't have missed it for anything. God, it had been so long since he'd heard Tony play. Sure, there were days when Tony didn't have to go to rehearsals, but they were so few and far between that even when Steve had asked about what was going on with his own music, Tony had waved his hand and told him it didn't matter, that it was fine and he just wanted to spend time with him. So Steve had let it drop.

Now, seeing Tony and the others strolling onto the stage, hearing the crowd screaming in anticipation—Steve couldn't help but beam, fighting down the urge to tell the people around him  _ that's my boyfriend! _ Instead, he  _ woo_ed with the rest—even though, damn it, it was so unlike him, but he was just so  _ excited_—only falling silent when they began to play.

And Tony—Tony was so clearly born for the stage. He strutted around like he owned the place with his guitar and red-tinted sunglasses, occasionally leaning into a mic to give backup vocals, and the crowd ate it all up. And in the middle of one song, he looked out, and in the midst of all these people, he found Steve.

Steve smiled at him.

Tony smiled back. Closed mouth. Eyes crinkling a little at the corners. Just enough to look genuine, but...

His guitar solo started, and their eye contact broke.

Steve still cheered at the end of it all, joining the crowd in the raucous screaming and yelling, and when it was time to go, he followed everyone else out of the stadium, just one more fan shuffling out among thousands. He'd known going in that he wouldn't be able to see Tony right after the concert, that he'd have to first debrief with the other band members, then do another debrief with the crew, and then he'd probably need to take a shower and eat something, and then  _ maybe _ he'd be free. But it was alright. Steve would just stay up late tonight and wait for Tony to come home.

And as he waited, he'd think about Tony smiling that way in the middle of his performance, lips pressed tight together, and he'd wonder—he'd wonder...

*

"Yes, thanks. I look forward to meeting with you."

Steve hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his forehead. He was exhausted, and there were still more calls to get through. This was the part he hated—all the red-tape stuff where he had to set up meetings, give his pitch, sell his "product". It grated him to think of what he'd created as a product, even with quotes around it. It wasn't a product, not to him. But it was to the investors, and so that was the language he needed to use.

After a few moments of this, he cracked open an eye and glanced at the clock. It was nearing the end of business hours. He could probably squeeze in one more call, but honestly, there was only one person whose voice he really wanted to hear right now.

Sitting back up, he rifled through his papers, looking for the list of hotels that AIM would be staying at while on their North American tour. Tony had provided him with it so that Steve could contact him, but more often than not, in the past two months since the tour had started, no one had answered. Maybe it'd be different today...

He picked up the phone, dialing the number—they were currently in Atlanta, due to perform at the Omni—and gave the receptionist the room he wanted to connect to. The phone rang... and rang... and rang...

Steve shut his eyes. "Hey, Tony," he said, even as the phone continued to ring. "It's been a while. I miss you. Wish I could hear your voice." He sighed, letting the ringing fill the silence for a bit before finally speaking again. "Good luck with your concert. I'll talk to you later..."

Finally, he hung up, then sat back again and stared up at the ceiling, wondering why he'd even bothered.

*

Steve had known halfway through the meeting that it wasn't going to go anywhere. Still, he sat through the rest of it because it was the polite thing to do, nodding along as though he was actually going to entertain all the ridiculous changes they were proposing.

"So we definitely like this concept that you've shown us," they'd told him. "This team of heroes. Very cool. But, you know, what if they were people's pets instead? And they just get together and imagine they do all these things, and we'll make it a TV show? Could compete pretty well against  _ Super Friends_."

At the end, he'd thanked them for their time, got into his car, and mentally crossed through another investor's name on his list. It was getting shorter and shorter. At this rate, he was going to cross through everything, and then...

He didn't want to think about it. Not now.

So he drove home in a funk, thinking instead of the plain chicken breast with veggies he was likely going to whip up for dinner—what was the point in doing anything fancy, when it was just him—and feeling so dismal about it that he didn't even notice the door to his home was unlocked until he'd already stepped through.

There was a bunch of stuff in the foyer—luggage, a leather jacket, but most importantly, a guitar case. He could smell food coming from the dining room, and the sounds of someone moving around. Half-afraid this was just some delusion, Steve followed the sounds to the kitchen, where he found Tony—of course it was Tony—wearing oven mitts, having just closed the oven door. "Holy shit," he breathed, surging forward to wrap his arms around him, pulling him into a kiss.

Tony melted into it, as he always did, and managed a sheepish smile afterward. "Surprise?" he tried, a little bit breathless.

Steve laughed, just enjoying the feeling of Tony in his arms again. "God. I can't believe you're here. I thought I'd have to wait a few more weeks to see you again."

"Yeah, fuck that," Tony said. "I mean, I do have to leave in the morning. But you got me for the night. And, not only that—" here, he turned, giving the oven a light tap with his foot—"you also get apple pie."

"You made a pie?"

"It's like you don't even know me at all, sweetheart," Tony replied, but he was grinning. "I respect your home too much to destroy it in a pie-making accident. No, I picked this up from somewhere. We'll have it later, after dinner. Come on." He stepped away (with some reluctance), then took off the oven mitts and led Steve to the dining room, where he'd set out some plates. There was a large bag of food sitting in the middle.

"Let me guess," Steve said. "Cheeseburgers."

"Oh, so you  _ do _ know me," Tony said with a laugh as they took a seat. "There are also fries and hot dogs and all the other things you like from the diner." He reached into the bag, tossed a burger at Steve, then unwrapped his own and started to chow down. "So where were you off to today? I know we haven't talked for a while..."

Steve took a bite out of his own burger, a little regretful Tony had brought the topic up. It was a sore subject, and he just wanted to enjoy the fact that Tony was here right now. "Just another investor meeting. Didn't go so well."

"Sounds like they're idiots," Tony offered.

That startled a laugh out of Steve. "Well, idiots or not, they do have a lot of money."

"Whatever." Tony waved a hand. "There's better fish in the sea. Smarter fish, who will actually recognize the amazingness of what you've created and let you do all the animated special effects your heart's dreaming of. I know it."

"I don't know that I do," Steve admitted. "But thanks, Tony."

"Like it's something that even needs thanking." He nudged Steve beneath the table with his leg. "I'm just stating facts, apple pie."

Steve smiled, ducking his head. Maybe this was one of the things he'd missed most. Tony would never  _ admit _ it, but beneath that snappy, sarcastic exterior, he was just... such an optimist, and his faith in Steve meant so much to him. "So," he said after a moment, "how are Maya and Aldrich?"

Tony rolled his eyes, although he was smiling a little. "You really wanna ruin a good night by bringing them up?"

"That bad, huh?"

"If the tour ends early, it's because Asshole and I killed each other. Except actually, it would never end early, because Maya would have dragged our bodies to the stage and made us perform from beyond the grave."

Steve could only blink and shake his head a little at that, nonplussed. "Alright, then," he said. "How about you tell me where you're flying off to tomorrow, instead?"

"Biloxi."

"Biloxi," he repeated, drawing the word out. "Where the hell is that?"

"Mississippi, apparently," Tony said, stealing some fries from Steve's plate even though he had plenty of fries of his own. "I have no idea what's there. You should come with me. We'll find out together."

Steve chuckled softly. "Yeah, that'd be something, wouldn't it?" he said. "I don't even know how to spell the place. But whatever—just leave all this behind and fly there anyway, right?"

Tony tilted his head. "I'm actually serious."

"And I'm definitely not," Steve said, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, come on. Biloxi?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with Biloxi? Could be useful. There's probably investors in Biloxi too. Who knows, you could expand your network. That never hurts."

"I don't think visiting Biloxi is going to have that kind of effect." Steve let out a sigh, putting his empty cheeseburger wrapper down. "And can we stop saying Biloxi? It's starting to sound even more weird than it already does."

"Alright, ban on Biloxi, starting... now," Tony said. "I thought... well, look, I know it's been hard to keep in touch and see each other. But I thought if I could visit you, maybe you could visit me, too."

Steve idly stirred a fry around in his ketchup. "Well, yeah, I'd love that, it's just... difficult right now with the meetings I have here. In California. But when you're done, it's not going to matter anymore, right? You'll be home."

"When I'm done?"

"Yeah. When the tour ends, right?"

Tony's brow furrowed. "I don't... Steve... I mean,  _ this _ tour will end, but there's going to be more tours. And when there aren't tours, then it's back to the studio for rehearsals and recordings. And then the whole cycle's going to repeat."

Steve stared at him, wondering if he could possibly be hearing right. The thought that this was it, that now they'd reached this point, nothing would change... "So this is your life now, touring with a band you hate? You're just gonna be AIM's guitarist?"

"Excuse me?"

"Just AIM's guitarist," Steve repeated, steely-eyed. "I thought you were going to do something different. Mix classical and rock. Who the hell else is out there with an electric violin?"

"Why do I need to be out there with an electric violin? Obviously the guitar's been working out for me pretty damn okay, don't you think? I finally get to go on a stage and have literally thousands of people cheer for me, and earn piles of money while I'm at it. Why can't you be happy about that?"

"Because it's not your dream!"

"Says who?"

"You!"

Neither of them were eating anymore. They both had their hands on the table, clenched into fists as they glared at each other. Finally, Tony sat back, exhaling sharply. "Dreams change, okay, Steve? Yeah, maybe a year ago I wanted to finish building Friday and write a bunch of songs and someday perform them, but now I've grown up."

"Growing up. That's what you're calling it?"

"That's what it is."

Steve crossed his arms. "So what's the implication? You've grown up, but I haven't, and you're just going to patiently wait for poor me to follow suit?"

"I never said that—"

"Then what the hell  _ are _ you saying?"

Tony worked his jaw. "Nothing. I'm not saying a thing. I'm just wondering to myself if the reason you're so pissed off is because you liked it better when we were both struggling."

The words struck like a physical blow, and Steve recoiled, hardly able to believe his ears. "Are you serious?"

"I wish I wasn't," Tony said.

There was a long moment of silence. Then the fire alarm started blaring.

Tony cursed, jumping to his feet and running over to the kitchen. Smoke was coming out of it, but right here, right now, Steve couldn't give a damn if his whole house burned down. He got up as well, then grabbed his keys, making a beeline toward the foyer. "Wait—" Tony called, but Steve ignored him, and he stepped past the door and was gone.

*

"I guess I missed you. I'm sorry. That's not how I wanted to leave things. We'll talk later, okay?"

Steve hit rewind, and then he pressed play.

"I guess I missed you. I'm sorry. That's not how I wanted to leave things. We'll talk later, okay?"

He hit rewind again, but this time he didn't press play. What good was replaying it going to do? Nothing was going to change. That night had still happened: Tony had said those things, Steve had left, and by the time he'd returned to a thankfully intact house, Tony was already gone. And now he was halfway across the country, as hard to reach as he ever was. But it was all Steve had of him right now.

His finger hovered over the play button. He really shouldn't spend all night listening to it. He shouldn't...

"I guess I missed you. I'm sorry..."

*

"Hey."

"Hey," Steve said softly in return. He stepped back, allowing Tony enough space to come inside. "You know, I didn't change the locks or anything. You could have let yourself in."

Tony took off his sunglasses, tucking them away before bringing his luggage and guitar into the foyer, glancing over at him. "I know," he began. "I just... thought it'd be better if you did it."

It had been a month since their argument. And in that month, they'd... never really managed to reach any sort of real closure. How could they, when they barely had a chance to talk? The only thing Steve had been able to say with any certainty was just— _come home_.

Now the tour was finally over. Steve knew that this time with him wouldn't last—there'd be another tour, and then there'd be rehearsing and recording, and it would all repeat over and over. But maybe it would still be enough to be able to fix what had happened. Everything felt so delicate right now, and he hated it.

He shut the door behind him, pausing a moment before reaching out to take Tony's hand. Tony glanced at him, eyes wide, and managed a small smile.

"We'll be okay," Steve said very quietly, and in his hand, he could feel Tony's own hand tremble, like he wanted nothing more than to believe it.

*

This was it. Steve had exhausted his list of potential investors, and now he was at a point where he could either compromise hard on his vision, or just... give up and accept that maybe he was on a fool's errand, going after something he was never meant to have.

He pulled into the driveway, parked the car, and just sat there for a while, trying to process it all. It didn't work. He supposed he shouldn't have expected a few moments of introspection to bring him peace, but God, things would have been a lot easier if they had.

The one bright spot was that at least with this final rejection, he had Tony. For once, he could be disappointed and upset, and he wouldn't be alone. Still, Tony's presence would only be able to ground him for so long. As much as Steve didn't want to think about it, they were nearing the end of Tony's break, and he'd be back on the road in just a few short days.

At least—at least they were better now. It had been hard, getting used to one another again after so much time apart. And though a part of Steve knew it was unwise, they hadn't really... talked all that much about the argument. It was just too much to bring up, and if he was being honest with himself, there was some stuff there that he wasn't sure he was ready to look at too closely yet. It would come out later, he knew. It had to. But for now, Tony was here, and Steve could simply enjoy his company.

Taking a deep breath, he got out of his car and headed into the house. Tony was on his guitar, practicing something, but as soon as he realized Steve was back, he dropped everything and came over, helping Steve get his jacket off even though he hardly needed the assistance.

"Bad day, huh?" Tony asked.

"I haven't even said anything yet."

"Trust me, apple pie, your face did plenty of talking."

Steve exhaled sharply, trying to calm himself down. It wouldn't help anyone for him to take his frustrations out on Tony. "I think I need a distraction." Catching the look on Tony's face, he managed a smile, adding, "A  _ food _ distraction."

"Oh, you're no fun," Tony teased, tossing his jacket at him. "But fine. Put that back on. I'm hungry anyway. Want to go to Dan Tana's?"

"Sure."

It wasn't that long afterward that they were seated around a small table and enjoying bowls of pasta. But though the mood was light, Steve couldn't help but internally worry about—about everything. His project, Tony's impending departure, where the hell his life was even going... there was just so much to think about. Still, he kept quiet, and if Tony's smiling face as Steve drove the both of them home afterward was anything to go by, he at least hadn't brought Tony down into his funk.

As they turned onto their street, Tony went silent mid-sentence, looking alert. Steve cast a quick glance at him but otherwise kept an eye on the road. "What's wrong?"

"Uh. Can we park somewhere? Not in front of our place?"

"Sure...?" He didn't know where this was going, but he turned onto a side road and found a free spot outside of someone else's home, about a block away from their own. "Okay. So what's going on?"

Tony sank into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. From behind them, a car drove past, seeming to slow briefly before continuing ahead. "It's the paparazzi," he said.

Steve frowned. "Where? At our place?"

"No, the car that just passed by."

"Oh." Well... Steve supposed Tony was kind of famous now. "It's okay, they're gone now."

"Yeah, I know," Tony said. His nose was scrunched and his eyes were shut. "I'm just worried about what they might have seen."

They'd gone out and had dinner together. There hadn't been anything of interest to see, unless—unless the very fact that Tony had been with Steve, specifically, was the point of interest. "You're not out," he said at last.

Tony opened his eyes and glanced over at him. He looked so guilty, but—why? They'd discussed it in the past. It wasn't really... safe to be out, and Steve understood if he had to be a secret. So what was going on, then? Though he was dreading the answer, he had to press: "Is there more to this?"

"Yes," Tony said miserably. He looked out the window, then sat back up, sighing. "It's not that I have a life that I keep private. The official line is that I'm single."

"What?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's better marketing," he said. "That's what they said. We get better engagement if everyone thinks I'm—available."

"Marketing," Steve repeated dumbly. "So I'm nothing, because you want to sell a few more tickets."

"It's not  _ me_, it's our PR person—"

Steve tapped on the car horn, which shut Tony up quickly. "I can't do this anymore," he said.

Tony stared at him, wide-eyed. "Do what?"

"This. Any of this. All of this!" Steve could feel his throat getting tight, and though he tried to fight it, it wasn't working. "What the hell am I doing? I had a career, I was a lead, and then I threw it all away for the sake of a dream. A dream! And not only that, it's a dream no one else believes in—"

" _I _ believe in it—"

"You don't get to say that," Steve ground out. He was gripping at the steering wheel with both hands. "What the hell does it matter what you believe in? In three days you'll be leaving again for another few months, pretending not only that I don't exist, but that you don't even have a partner at all. So what does that leave me with, Tony?"

He didn't look at him. He couldn't bring himself to. But if he did turn, he wouldn't have been surprised to see Tony staring slack-jawed at him.

For the next several moments, there was silence. Finally, Steve continued: "You should leave the car."

"This is your home—" Tony began.

"Please just leave."

Tony exhaled, and from the corner of his eye, Steve could see him reaching out, placing his hand against the door handle. "I never wanted to make you feel this way," he said softly.

Steve just shook his head, staring out his windshield. If he said something now, he was afraid he might regret it. Tony, to his credit, didn't push any further. He opened the door, stepping out before shutting it behind him, and just looked at him through the window.

He couldn't stay. He started the ignition again, then hit the gas, driving away, away, away.

*

Steve spent the next week in a hotel. Three of those days were to wait Tony out, because he'd have to leave for his tour. And the next four days were just... to build up the courage to eventually go back to a home that he knew Tony was no longer part of.

It hurt. God, it hurt. He'd never wanted this, and if he were being rational about it, he knew that Tony hadn't, either. But this was where the chips had fallen. And now—now he'd have to start over again, alone and jobless, deciding whether or not he was above crawling back to his old studio for employment.

If there was one thing Tony was right about, Steve thought dully as he finally checked out of the hotel—it was that dreams did change. Reality could hit a little too hard, and when it did, it made it abundantly clear that some dreams just weren't possible. Change was a necessity. And if he tried to fight it, he'd go mad.

Eventually, he made it back home and pulled into his driveway, staring at his house once he parked. Nothing had changed visually, but somehow it felt emptier. What was he going to find inside, he wondered? Would all of Tony's things be gone already? Or, worse, would they still be there, abandoned, left for Steve to decide whether to discard them himself?

His hands were trembling at the thought. He tightened his grip on his keys, but it didn't work, and it just got worse as he approached the door. And that was when he realized—there was  _ music _ coming from inside.

Tony was here.

Steve hesitated. He wanted to run. But hadn't he already been running for the past week? Clearly it hadn't worked. Maybe he just needed to—to face this, whatever it was, and end it all conclusively.

"Damn it," he murmured to himself, and he unlocked the door and stepped through.

As expected, Tony was in the living room playing something—but not his guitar. He was on Friday, his bow gliding over the strings, and Steve heard something he hadn't heard in months—that one tune that had first drawn him to Tony well over a year ago, that Tony had been working on all this time but never quite finished.

Steve's arrival didn't go unnoticed. Tony glanced at him, his bow stalling momentarily, but then he picked it back up again, continuing to play. Steve, for his part, allowed him to continue. After another minute, the song finally drew to an end, and Tony lowered Friday to his side, gazing at Steve. "Hi," he said softly.

Steve took a deep breath, trying to figure out how the hell he was even supposed to reply. Finally, he settled with, "Aren't you supposed to be in Portland?"

A nod.

"And why aren't you?"

"Because something more important came up."

Steve rubbed his temple, half-afraid Tony was going to hit him with some line straight out of a romance movie. "What is it?"

"Nick Fury called the day after we, uh... you know." There must have been bafflement in Steve's reaction, because Tony added, "Nick Fury, as in the director—"

"I know who Nick Fury is," Steve cut in. "But why the hell would he be calling?"

"He wants to meet you," Tony said. His eyes were shining. This was the most excited Steve had seen him in—in months. "He didn't exactly give me many details—cagey guy—but said something about how a little birdie had told him how the Magic Kingdom had lost one of their top animators, and he wanted to learn more—"

Steve threw up his hands. "I'm not here to give exit interviews to random people months after the fact," he snapped. "Even if that random person is Nick Fury."

"Let me finish!" Tony took this moment to pause, exhaling sharply. "I think he wants to work with you. He's in L.A. until tonight, and then he'll be flying to the U.K. I didn't know when you'd be back, so I scheduled you to meet with him as late as possible, which is 4pm today."

"That's only a few hours away."

"Yeah, so you'd better shave and put on something nicer than that t-shirt. Chop chop." He made an aborted movement—Steve thought maybe he was going to pat the stubble on his cheek—but apparently thought better of it, keeping his hands to himself.

Physical encouragement or not, it didn't matter. "I'm not going."

"Say that again?"

Steve gave Tony the hardest glare he could. "I'm not going. I told you earlier. I can't do this anymore."

Tony stared back. Then he tossed Friday to the side, growling, " _What?_ "

"Tony!" On instinct, Steve dashed over to where Friday was laying on the ground, picking her up even though rationally, he knew it didn't matter. If she was already damaged, nothing he did would change that. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What the hell are  _ you _ doing?" Tony shot back. "How is what you're doing anything better than what I just did? Tell me that!"

"You don't understand, you weren't even here—"

"Then  _ make _ me understand!"

"Okay. Okay! You want to understand?" Steve paced restlessly for a few steps, still gripping Friday, before wheeling back toward Tony. "Imagine this. You're in a field that you're passionate about. You love it. But you want to—to do  _ more _ in it. You sacrifice. You pour your heart into an idea, something that can not only showcase what you want to do technically, but is meaningful to you as well. And you go to people, one by one, hoping someone—anyone—will see what you see. Will feel how you feel. And then what do you get? No, sorry, we're not interested, because—it's for children, who cares, or we don't see the point in pushing past our technical limits. Or, yes, we  _ are _ interested, but only if you change the whole idea in the first place. Like turn it into a goddamn Saturday morning cartoon with animals on a shoestring budget so it can compete with  _ Super Friends_. Every. Single. Meeting. And you realize then that maybe this idea you had, that you sacrificed for, was worthless, and you yourself are worthless, and it's time to just let it go."

"You're not worthless."

"Maybe I am."

"You're not."

"I'm not going to go back and forth—"

"Ah! You said 'I'm not'. So you agree."

Steve sighed, putting his free hand over his face. "Jesus Christ, Tony."

"Hey, if you're going to say stupid shit, then I am too."

"And what did I say that was so stupid, exactly?"

Tony stepped toward him. "'Imagine this,' you said. Like I had to imagine. Like I didn't already know exactly what you were talking about, about wanting to do  _ more_." He reached forward, taking Friday back, though his movements were gentle. "I understand perfectly well, Steve. So listen to me when I say that you're going to meet Nick Fury this afternoon." He paused, then added, "Oh, and I'll be coming too."

"What? Your car's still in storage; you won't even be driving—"

"Don't care; still coming. I'll be in the passenger seat whether you like it or not. Now go and shave." He turned away then, inspecting Friday for damage, and Steve realized the conversation was over.

He was too tired to fight this. Resigned, he headed to the bathroom to clean himself up some, and three hours later he was groomed and had all of his presentation materials prepared, in case they were needed—his pitch, some storyboards, his demo reel, some other assorted materials. On top of that, he'd also looked up and mapped out the directions to Fury's office.

There was no use in further delaying. With some prodding from Tony, they were off, and soon enough they were sitting in the waiting room, Steve clutching at his materials tightly. It was too quiet for him to feel comfortable talking, so he just looked at Tony, who smiled at him in return—not that low-key smile he'd seen when Tony had been performing at the Forum, but something more radiant than that, like he knew that this was all going to be okay.

Tony always believed in him.

"Mr. Rogers?" the receptionist called, and Steve quickly rose to his feet in response. "Mr. Fury will see you now."

With one last glance at Tony, who just nodded encouragingly, Steve headed into the office, shutting the door behind him. Inside was a lone man seated comfortably at his desk, and though Steve had never seen him before, he knew that this had to be Fury.

"Um. Hi," he said, a little awkwardly. "I'm Steve Rogers."

"I know exactly who you are, Steve Rogers," Fury said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"Okay." Steve sat down, then looked back at him. The man had an eyepatch. He had never seen that before, not in person, but right now wasn't the time to get distracted by these sorts of things. Keen on breaking the silence, he continued, "I have a demo reel and a pitch, if you'd like to hear it."

Fury straightened, folding his hands in front of him. "That's not what I brought you here for," he said. "I asked you to come here because I wanted to hear, in your own words, why you left your position as a lead animator, despite being a top talent with a hell of a career ahead of you."

Steve shook his head slowly, wondering if he was hearing right. "Pardon me, sir, but I don't understand..."

"Let me rephrase," Fury interrupted. "You wanted something so badly that you gave up a comfortable job at the largest animation studio in the world. I want to know what that is."

The words Steve had practically shouted at Tony just earlier that day jumped into his mind unbidden. "I," he began weakly. "I wanted to do more."

Fury leaned back into his chair and motioned for him to continue, and the words spilled out.

*

"Newcastle-under-Lyme," Tony repeated. "Wow. What a mouthful."

"Better than Biloxi," Steve said.

Tony snorted. "You're not gonna let that go, are you?" he asked. "Anyway. I guess it's a good thing. If England's going to give Fury a bunch of tax incentives to set up a studio there, he has more money to fund you with so that you can make something amazing. Win-win."

"Yeah, I guess." It... didn't feel entirely like a win-win, but he was a little afraid of voicing the thought. So he chose not to say anything more, instead curling his toes through the sand and staring out at the ocean before them.

Tony glanced at him, then followed his gaze, watching the waves. They were seated just far enough from the shore for the water to not reach them. "So when are you gonna know more?"

"A few days from now," Steve said, remembering what he'd been told. "Fury's flying into Manchester tonight, and then he needs some time to break in his new office. He said that was why he took so long to reach out, because he's been busy with this new branch. Once that's done, I guess he'll give me a call." He managed a small smile. "He gave me shit for scheduling our meeting right before he was due to fly back. Said we should have met earlier."

"If this is meant to be a criticism of my scheduling abilities, you should know that I won't stand for it," Tony replied with mock haughtiness. "Any earlier and this wouldn't have happened."

Steve looked down. "Yeah, I know," he said softly. "Tony, you... I know I said this already, but by the time I came back, you should have been in Portland. But you stayed here, just to tell me about this. Aren't you going to get in trouble with Maya and Aldrich? I mean, did they have to cancel their concerts?"

"Don't worry about it. They'll get stand-ins. The show must go on, and all."

"But what about you?"

Tony shrugged, his own toes curling in the sand. "Doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Steve insisted. "It matters to me. You put your career in jeopardy for my sake."

"You say that like it was some great sacrifice on my end," Tony said. "But it really wasn't. Easiest choice in the world, honestly."

"Is that so," Steve said, but it was more rhetorical than anything else. For a while, neither of them spoke, and they just sat there in the relative silence, listening to the gulls and the wind and the waves. Finally, he asked, "Where are we?"

Tony cocked his head. "The beach, obviously."

"Yeah, I know that. I mean, where are  _ we_."

"Mmm," Tony murmured. "Where do you want to be?"

Steve swallowed, subconsciously digging his feet deeper into the sand. "I want to be here," he said very quietly.

Tony nodded along absently. "Yeah," he agreed. He blinked a few times, and for a second, his breathing seemed to pick up. "But you'll be in Newcastle-under-Lyme."

"Not necessarily."

"Yes, necessarily," Tony insisted. "Because not only is Fury going to call you back in a few days and tell you that he wants you to make him even more famous by creating the best animated film ever, but you're going to say yes, and you're gonna poach Sharon and Sam and the others and move to Newcastle-under-Lyme to make it happen. You have to. It's your dream."

"And you?" Steve pressed gently. "You gonna try and make it up to the band? Or maybe, I don't know... you could start over somewhere new..."

"Like England?" Tony supplied. His mouth curved up into a faint smile. "It's a nice thought, apple pie. But—no. I think—I think I've been passive too long. You helped me realize that. If I want to accomplish the things I've been dreaming of, I need to stop wasting time and just— _do _ it. Even if I still have to wait for Pepper and Rhodey to be ready, I gotta get the ball moving now. Finish building Friday. Write down all those songs.  _ Do _ things. And... and I need to do them here. In L.A."

Steve nodded, finding himself blinking rapidly as well. Strange how it had suddenly gotten a bit hard to see. "That's all I ever wanted for you," he managed, despite the tightness of his throat. "To do the things you dreamed of. And to be happy doing it."

"Funny," Tony said, "because that's the exact same thing I want for you."

They looked at each other. Steve reached out. Tony reached back. His fingers curled around Steve's own, and no further words needed to be said.

***

_ Five. _ __  
_ Years. _ _  
_ _ Later. _

"Well, go on. Sooner you open it up and find out which Avenger is inside, sooner I can have the chicken nuggets."

Steve pulled the Happy Meal box toward him. "I feel like I should state that for the record, I never said anything about wanting a Happy Meal, and I have no idea why you felt compelled to buy me one."

"Yes, yes, it's not like you engaged in any longing stares as soon as you saw the advertisements for the toys inside. This was a thoroughly spontaneous purchase."

"As long as that's clear," Steve replied, but he looked up to smile at Peggy, and she smiled back. It was sweet that she had noticed. He was still shocked that what had seemed like just a dream a few years ago was now... this. Mass-produced, widely-available merchandise.

He pulled out the toy and set it down on the table. Iron Man wobbled slightly—it was a cheap little thing; the balance wasn't perfect—but it was here and it was real, and Steve couldn't help his deep fondness at seeing it.

"That's your favorite one, isn't it?" Peggy asked.

"Yeah," Steve said. He glanced over at her, then at the contents of the Happy Meal spilled out before her on a napkin. "How did you finish all the nuggets already?"

She shrugged and pushed the fries toward him. "You were too slow."

"You're a monster." Still, he deigned to start eating them, since they were right there.

Peggy just grinned smugly, looking triumphant. "Be careful what you call me, because I have another surprise for you."

"Oh?"

She took a fry. "What did you want to do tonight?"

Steve blinked and raised an eyebrow at her. "Uh, I don't know. Watch a movie, maybe?"

" _Or_ ," Peggy said, "we could go to a concert. Jan dropped by right before you got back. She had great tickets to a show at Old Trafford tonight, but they can't make it. I said we might be able to go, so now I have them. What do you think?"

"That's an hour away."

"Not if I drive."

Steve snorted, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, okay, why not. I guess we didn't have any other plans. When should we leave?"

Peggy dumped the remaining fries back into the Happy Meal box, handing it to Steve. "Now. You can finish these on the way."

Steve accepted the box, and after grabbing a few more things, they were in Peggy's car, driving up north toward the stadium. He ate the rest of the fries, then took out the Iron Man toy and set it on the dashboard, where it teetered precariously with every bump on the road. Peggy didn't say anything, but he caught her sneaking a glance at it and chuckling.

"Who's playing? At the concert, I mean?" he eventually asked.

"Mark IV."

" _What?_ "

"Good lord, Steve," Peggy said, though it was more chiding than alarmed. "What, do you not like them? I never realized."

"No, no," Steve replied quickly. "They're fine, I just... I just."

Mark IV was Tony's band.

It had been a long, long time since Steve had last thought about Tony Stark. Five years ago, they'd parted ways: Tony had stayed in L.A., while Steve had sold his house and moved to England to start work at Fury's newly-formed animation studio. They'd tried to keep in touch as best as they could, but overseas calls were expensive, and letters were slow. Eventually, all contact between them dried up, and he'd put a close to the chapter of his life that Tony had played such a major part in. He never would have thought that he'd have any reason to think of him again. Apparently, he'd been wrong, and now Tony was here, in England, playing at a concert Steve was about to see.

Peggy hummed softly. "Well, I hope you enjoy it. It's not a very good surprise if I've gone and made you miserable, is it?"

"You could never do that," Steve assured her, and she smiled in response.

Now that he knew what was coming, the rest of the drive went by almost alarmingly quickly, and soon enough they were in the stadium, just two people among thousands. The opening act came out to perform, and though Steve wanted to enjoy the music, he found himself getting increasingly anxious even though there was  _ no reason _ to. Five years had passed, after all. In the unlikely event Tony even saw Steve in the first place, what were the chances he'd remember him?

The opening act wrapped up, bowed, and left the stage. A few minutes later, Tony and the rest of Mark IV made their appearance to thunderous cheers, and Steve felt his heart skip a beat as he had his answer.

There, in Tony's hand, was an electric violin in the shape of an infinity sign.

"Oh," he said faintly, but amidst all the screaming, no one heard. Meanwhile, Tony grabbed the mic with one hand, thrusting his violin—Friday, it had to be Friday—into the air with the other, the hot-rod red gleaming in the light.

" _Manchester!_ " he shouted, and the noise of the crowd swelled in response even as Steve just stood there dumbstruck. " _Are you ready? _"

He really, really wasn't.

But Tony had no way of knowing that, and they launched into their set list.

It was just like old times, and though the memory was tinged with sadness, it was good, too. He could remember sitting in a club five years ago, seeing Tony and Rhodey and Pepper and Happy perform and thinking that they were playing the most amazing rock music he'd ever heard. Five years later, watching the four of them now finally on the big stage, he felt the same way. And if the crowd was anything to go by—hell, if Peggy's dancing beside him was anything to go by—he wasn't alone.

And Tony—Tony looked radiant. Watching him now, comparing it to his act in AIM—it was like night and day. For AIM, it was a performance. For Mark IV, it was  _ him_, and as he made his way around the stage, fingers flying, Steve realized that his feelings for him had never changed.

For the next two hours, they went through their set list, Steve giving in and letting himself be caught up in the music. And when Tony announced that the next song would be their last, Steve couldn't help but feel a pang of loss. He'd been able to pretend, if just for a little while, that they were still connected—but it was time, it seemed, for the illusion to be dispelled.

The song came to an end. The crowd cheered. Tony looked out at the audience, beaming, and then—

Their eyes met.

Tony took an involuntary step back; Steve's own knees buckled. Their eye contact was momentarily broken, but it didn't last—his gaze was drawn to Steve's again, and for several seconds, they just looked at each other despite the increasing murmurs from the crowd. Finally, Tony reached out blindly to grab the mic, and then he held it to his lips and spoke.

"I lied," he said, his voice quieter than it had been throughout the whole concert. "One more song, if Miss Potts will forgive the deviation from the set list..."

He turned away, nodding at the others. There seemed to be a mutual understanding, because they started playing, and Tony lifted his bow, placing it against the strings and sweeping his arm downward.

Steve recognized the opening note immediately. It was—it was the song. The one that Tony had never quite finished, but that he had worked on over the course of days, weeks, months. The one that was supposed to be dedicated to Steve one day, once it was finally done. The one that he had first heard in an upscale restaurant in December of 1981 as he'd stood there, transfixed—

*

_ The violinist is walking in his direction, instrument gripped tight in his hand, and Steve approaches him, mouth already running. "Hey," he says. "I've never heard a violin played like that before, and—" _

__ _ Tony grabs him by the waist and sweeps him into a kiss, everyone else in the restaurant be damned, and Steve melts into it, helpless— _

*

_ They're sitting in the club after Tony's performance, playing footsie under the table, when Maya approaches. "Tony? That you?" she asks. _

__ _ "I'm sorry, I'm actually the life-model decoy of Tony Stark; please leave a message," Tony says with a laugh. Maya rolls her eyes and leaves, and Steve will never need to hear the names of Aldrich and AIM— _

*

_ "Where are we?" Steve asks after Nick Fury manages to get in contact with him, and now they're sitting on the beach, just the two of them, staring out at the waves. _

__ _ "Mmm," Tony murmurs. "Where do you want to be?" _

__ _ Steve swallows, subconsciously digging his feet deeper into the sand. "I want to be here," he says very quietly. _

__ _ "Yeah," Tony agrees, and he smiles. "But you'll be in Newcastle-under-Lyme. And you know what? So will I." _

__ _ Steve looks at him, surprised. "You'd come with me?" he asks. _

__ _ "How could I go anywhere else?" Tony asks, and he reaches out to take Steve's hand in his own— _

*

_ Tony performs at a packed music venue in Manchester that can seat six hundred, and at the end, Steve is the first to jump to his feet, clapping, and Tony shamelessly hops off the stage to pull him into a kiss. "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen," he tells the disappointed-looking crowd of admirers around them, "but I'm taken." And though Steve is aware of the risks of being out, his heart feels full at the thought of being known, of not being a secret— _

*

_ They arrive so late to the concert at Old Trafford that they miss the entire opening act, and it's a struggle to weave their way through the crowd in an attempt to find a better view. But Tony's hand is warm in his own, and that's more important than whatever is going on around them. _

__ _ Eventually, they get situated, and for the next two hours they join in on the screaming and dancing and cheering. And as the headliner finishes their last song, Steve turns to Tony, then to the violinist on the stage, then back to Tony. _

__ _ "What?" Tony asks. _

__ _ "Are you happy?" _

__ _ Tony looks at him, his eyes shining in the stadium lights, and he reaches up to touch Steve's cheek and smiles— _

*

Tony drew out the last note, then slowly lowered his arms and faced the audience, which immediately burst into screams and clapping. After a moment, the other three stepped forward and bowed to more thunderous applause, and Steve could see Happy placing a hand against Tony's back, urging him to take a bow as well. " _Thank you, Manchester!_ " Rhodey yelled into the mic, and he waved and left the stage. The rest followed—all except for Tony, who lingered, staring down at the violin in his hand.

_ Are you happy? _

On that stage, before that final song, Tony had looked happy. But...

There were no buts, he thought firmly, and he turned away. Tony had made it. They hadn't done it together, but it didn't matter. Five years had passed, and Tony had become a side note in Steve's life, someone only mentioned in parentheses. And Steve—Steve had surely become a side note in Tony's own. After all, he'd gone and accomplished his dreams. That was all Steve had ever wanted for him.

He glanced over at Peggy. "Ready to go?"

"Yes, let me just figure out where the keys went..."

He nodded and started guiding her toward one of the exits as she dug around in her purse. Yet something compelled him to look back at Tony, who was still standing alone on the stage, head down. But then Tony's gaze shifted, and somehow, against all odds, he managed to find Steve again in the crowd.

They had meant so much to each other, once.

_ Are you happy? _

Tony looked at him, his eyes shining in the stadium lights. Despite how far apart they were, Steve could see his grip on Friday, with her infinity-sign design, tightening almost imperceptibly.

There had to be a reason their paths had crossed again after all this time. Maybe, just maybe, it was the universe giving them the chance to find the closure that they had never been able to reach themselves, and it was up to Steve to make the most out of it.

So he reached up, gently placing a hand over his heart as he searched Tony's eyes, willing for him to know his thoughts.  _ Thank you_, he mouthed, _for everything_.  _ Because we made it. We made it. _

Slowly, slowly, Tony smiled, and with trembling lips, Steve smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I would also like to add here that the working title for this fic was "the Don Bluth AU x pseudo-Yellowcard tribute fic that DEFINITELY no one ever asked for".
> 
> I have a rebloggable Tumblr post here! <https://citsiurtlanu.tumblr.com/post/630546945217380352/steve-is-an-animator-dreaming-of-breathing-life>
> 
> There is also fanart by SoraEmpty!! <https://soraempty.tumblr.com/post/632148716839665664/heres-some-fanart-for-citsiurtlanu-lovely-fanfic> <3 <3 <3


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